Diablo II: Blood and Hellfire
by The Phrenologikal Cat
Summary: D2 Novelisation. Finding the sick and injured Druid on the Blood Moor will set off a chain of events leading to a quest to bring down Andariel, and release Westmarch from her toxic presence.  Reboot of "Bloody Hellfire".
1. Wolf in the Mist

_I had a dream, which was not all a dream.  
>The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars<br>Did wander darkling in the eternal space,  
>Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth<br>Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;  
>Morn came and went -and came, and brought no day,<br>And men forgot their passions in the dread  
>Of this their desolation; and all hearts<br>Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light;_

**Darkness** – Lord George Gordon Byron

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><p>There'd been more ravens about lately. Paige wondered idly if they had come from the graveyard – driven out, or deliberately delivered to their camp? It hadn't been a noticeable difference at first, a few more perched on the hastily erected wooden walls enclosing their tents and caravans than usual, as if waiting for the inevitable fall of the Rogue Encampment. One or two more came each day, however. As Warriv had noted (in an attempt to lighten the mood that went horribly awry), if things continued on in this fashion, it wouldn't take long before you wouldn't see a spare space on the walls not filled with glossy black feathers. A bad omen on the best of days, but in such a mood as these days, Paige felt uneasy with the invasion of ravens into their camp.<p>

She turned at the sound of footsteps, smiling blankly up at Isolde. It was an empty gesture, a conditioned response that had lost all meaning. The other Rogue took Paige's arrows, slinging the quiver over her shoulder. Waste not, want not.

"All clear?"

"A quiver rat got close, but wandered off at the last minute. No sign of…" She twisted her hand, still unable to say the word. "Not since _those two_ went through the den."

Both turned to look in the direction of a particular tent, hidden behind the high wooden walls, where two guests had been staying. Paige pulled a face, turning away, handing over her longbow as well.

"I don't know why Kashya allows them to stay in the camp."

"She listens to Akara." Isolde replied, testing the bend of the bow, and then resting an arrow against it. Always prepared. "And right now, Akara is all we have left."

"Yes, well, Akara also said that the ravens are a good omen. Since when have those grave-robbers ever been a good anything?" Paige clasped her hands together, taking on a sombre tone, "The ravens will save us. I'm eighty years old and blind. Has anyone seen my walking stick?"

"I'm not laughing at that." Isolde said, turning away and hiding her mouth with a hand. "That's disrespectful, Paige. She's the last Priestess in Westmarch."

"I know." Paige said quietly, and Isolde winced. She'd forgotten her sister had been an acolyte of the Order of the Sightless Eye.

"Go get some food and sleep. I've got this shift."

Paige turned, and was halfway over the bridge when she heard Isolde call for her. Turning around quickly, she saw her friend in a battle stance, bow drawn taught, eyes fixed on some point in the rain.

"Go get Kashya!"

"What is it?" Paige took a few steps toward Isolde, but was stopped when the other barked at her.

"Get Kashya, Paige!"

The Rogue turned and ran back into camp, calling for Kashya in a panic, headed straight for the campfire. The strong, comforting figure of their military commander was, as ever, outlined by the blazing fire, neither woman nor flames dampened by the downpour. The older woman's head turned, alerted by the shouts of her Rogue, arms uncrossing as she turned and caught Paige by her shoulders.

"Isolde's at the gate, she told me to get you, she didn't say what it was but she sounded urgent, Kashya!"

"Isolde? All right. The end of your story will have to wait for another night, Warriv."

The dark-skinned deserter smiled calmly at Kashya. "As if you don't already know it. Run, Kashya. See to your Rogues."

Needing no further encouragement, Kashya headed straight for the gates, Paige at her heels like an obedient terrier. By the time they'd arrived, Isolde had backed up off the bridge, bow held high, panic on her face. At the other end of the bridge was a wolf, pure white and impossibly big – a good eight feet from nose to tail and reaching past Kashya's belly button at the shoulders. Its eyes were da- no, on closer inspection, there was nothing there at all. Two empty, dark spaces.

"I thought there were no wolves left in Westmarch!" Paige breathed, staring at the beast. Isolde started, catching sight of Kashya.

"Ma'am, when I shoot it, it just…" She strung her bow before Kashya could stop her, letting the arrow fly. It calmly passed straight through the head off the wolf, down through its body, burying itself in the soft, loamy soil of the marsh behind it. The wolf didn't move.

"Idiot!" Kashya snarled, yanking the bow from Isolde's hands. "Do you know what that is?" She glared down at Isolde's frightened expression, biting the tip of her tongue. Of course not. The girl was still a student before the outbreak. Still a sheltered child. "That's a Spirit Wolf, a servant of the Druids. It means no harm. The arrow passed through it, which means its master is either far from here or…"

"Or?"

Kashya turned to Paige, barking orders swiftly. "Get Aleisha, she's our fastest runner. Tell her to gather healing supplies from Akara, and then follow our tracks out into the marsh. _Don't stare at me girl, go!_ Isolde," the woman turned, drawing the shortsword at her waist and grabbing Isolde by the shoulder, shoving her out over the bridge, stepping after her, "the wolf will lead the way. Let's go."

"I don't understand, ma'am." Isolde implored, heading after her obediently. Kashya just turned to look overhead as a pair of dark shadows passed, taking perch on the wooden wall. A roughened cry rang out after them.

"Ravens are also servant spirits of the Druids." Kashya replied quietly, following the ghostly outline of the Spirit Wolf.

They didn't have far to go before they found him, sheltered from the wind by a fallen tree, the flickering form of another, small wolf by his side. He lay slumped against the tree, head bowed against his chest. His orange hair so pale it was almost blond, his complexion grey and drained. One hand rested against his side in his unconscious state, where the rain still hadn't washed out the dark stains of blood. It looked as though he had been trying for the camp but didn't quite make it. One wolf had gone for help while the other had stood watch, though what it could do for him in its incorporeal state was a mystery. Their guide took a seat by his body, and both turned their faces to the women. If they had eyes, they would be staring imploringly at Kashya and Isolde.

Kashya approached, wary of the two ghostly guardians, squatting down and shifting the man's hand. Rucking up his shirt revealed a messy wound, already in a bad state.

"As I thought. We can't move him as he is."

"Move hi- _move him?_ You intend to bring him into the _camp?_ You can't be serious Kashya, we barely have enough supplies for ourselves. Between Gheed and those two other outsiders, we're straining to keep going. And you really want to bring another in?"

Kashya checked his neck for a pulse, then lifted his head. Sunken cheeks, a crooked nose that sloped into a dark point, thin lips and weedy facial growth developing into a half-hearted beard.

"Akara will want to talk to him. I suspect she has been waiting for his arrival."

The raven on his leg gave a loud cry of agreement, turning and peering Isolde straight in the eyes. It didn't have all-black eyes, but instead a bright ring of gold that gave it an impression of madness in its gaze.

When Aleisha arrived, Isolde was ordered to play nursemaid, as they tended to his visible wounds as best they could. He was covered in mud and dirty water, and who knew how long he'd been dragging himself through the marshes in his state. If he didn't die from blood loss, he'd have a hard time battling fever and infection.

Dabbing as best they could at the wounds, Isolde moved up his bared chest, noting the ribs poking through with a shudder. She felt suddenly less hard-off. Hanging on a leather thong around his neck, Isolde noticed a glass vial, within which a single purple flower was perfectly preserved.

"Have you seen this before?" Isolde pulled it away from his chest, showing it to Kashya.

Aleisha leaned forward, peering at it, volunteering, "It's sort of pretty."

Kashya shook her head, taking the vial. "I think I saw something similar at the Monastery, when I was a child. Akara might know something about it." She tucked it away in her shirt, then motioned for Isolde to take an arm. "Let's get him back to camp."

Between the three of them, they somehow managed to drag his surprisingly heavy frame back to camp. The two wolves had disappeared back into whatever spirit realm they had been called from, apparently confident in leaving their master in the Rogues' care. As soon as she saw them, Akara motioned for them to bring the man into her tent back at camp, where she had set up bedding. The air was thick with the invasive smells of her healing concoctions, and Isolde just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

That night the two outsiders came back to camp while Isolde was on gate watch. Rosa smiled dismissively, her loyal dog in shining armour silently following after. Isolde bit her tongue to keep from snapping. How such a brat had gained the favour of Akara was a mystery. Isolde truly couldn't stand her.

"You missed quite the commotion." Isolde remarked as the girl passed by with barely a nod. "We have a new guest staying with us."

Rosa stopped, looking up at the Paladin. Truth was, Isolde had never seen the man under all that metal, and couldn't remember if he'd ever said a word since the two had arrived. She only knew his name.

"Aries, that must be…" Rosa glanced quickly at Isolde, and switched her grip on her staff, picking up a jogging pace. "Come on!"

Isolde kept her eyes on the Blood Moor, but listened to them head inside with interest. If Kashya was right, Akara wasn't the only one who had been expecting the arrival of the Druid. More was going on right now than their auspicious spiritual leader was telling, and it had something to do with the three outsiders.

As three more ravens flew overhead, Isolde felt uneasy. It was a feeling she would no doubt become accustomed to over the coming days.


	2. An Agreement is Reached

_Just a quick note to say thanks for the reviews._

_**Dadude** – because I guess I'm a masochist or something but I _do_ plan to introduce all the classes over the course of the five acts. They will all be as non-traditional as I can get away with, varying from the designs of the game. Five acts are hopefully enough time for me to pace myself out and get used to the characters so I don't fall into exactly that trap though. :)  
><em>

_Exciting stuff happens next chapter guys, I promise. For now, stick with me through the boring exposition and set-up._

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><p>In the three days the stranger spent unconscious in Akara's tent, Isolde had to stand outside waiting on each cold and freezing night of them – and those nights were the worst. Whatever had brought him to death's door, and only a small way further from their camp, must have been truly horrifying. It was amazing that someone could scream that way without waking. Those shouts of sheer terror that cut suddenly into the night without warning did an excellent job of keeping her awake against the night. Or even worse, the whimpers. Isolde knew those whimpers intimately. Those were the whimpers of wanting, of <em>needing<em> to scream, but the terror of some remembered danger telling you to keep quiet, to stay hidden, and you bite it down. It meant you were reliving it, reliving a moment when it was stay quiet to stay alive. Sometimes you got both, when the dam broke and the soft, agonised whimpers turned into howls, screaming fits of terror and remembered agony, and then, and then… silence. Horrible _dead_ silence.

Including when they brought him in, Isolde endured three nights of this, shivering against the Westmarch cold and trying to block out the sounds. On and off all night it would come from the tent, until it seemed like she couldn't take it any more and Aleisha would finally come to relieve her.

Finally, on the third day, he woke while she slept. Isolde didn't feel at all disappointed to have missed his awakening, except maybe for missing the chance to berate him. The raven man – that was all they had to name him – stayed in Akara's tent mostly, though occasionally she saw him caught outside, looking grey and haggard, quietly conversing with the Sorceress.

As for the flower she had found on his neck, she had taken the chance early to ask Akara about it, but the older woman had surprisingly little to offer, instead recommending Isolde to Warriv. Conversely, the deserter had seemed quite interested in the flower, eager to tell her about it.

"In my home we called it the Devil's helmet, for the shape and for the poison. But you don't find them out in the desert. They grow around mountains originally. My father would import them for the alchemists of Lut Gholein."

"Why would a Druid carry a poisonous flower with him?" Isolde asked, her voice interrogative.

"Well, only the roots are poisonous." Warriv assured her. "The flowers are harmless. Just flowers."

The most disturbing thing was the colour. When she had taken the flower off the raven man, Isolde could have sworn it had been purple. Now, however, it was a soft, creamy yellow. To that Warriv could only offer that her memory must be faulty.

Five days after the stranger awoke, Isolde was called back to Akara's tent. Since his awakening, none but the now-High Priestess, and the Sorceress and her Paladin, had been allowed to see the Druid. Not even Kashya had been permitted to speak with him, though Akara insisted it was more a matter of her worry for his health when faced with the force of nature that was their military leader. Isolde had been glad for the break, feeling sour at the prospect of returning again to that cursed tent.

Kashya stood by the small fire pit in the clearing in front of Akara's tent, where the High Priestess mixed her concoctions. Settled comfortably in a cross-legged position, sipping up the last of a broth laced with bitter herbs, was the raven man. He didn't acknowledge Isolde's arrival in any way, only setting the bowl down and dusting his hands, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Akara wrapped her shawl tighter around her bony shoulders, sighing at the silent stand-off, making the first move toward peace;

"This is Isolde, _Fitheach_. She is the one who has been safe-guarding your trinket."

With some deeper meaning behind her words, Kashya added, "She is also one of my best women. Her eyes are better than any in the camp."

The raven man looked up at her. She couldn't make out the colour of his eyes – was it green? Perhaps? – they were so dark, shadowed by his lowset brow and heavy bags. His smile was unpleasant and insincere, a sort of hollow, conditioned response of someone who was told that such a thing was just what you should do, like talking or eating, in order to pretend human.

"If you wouldn't mind, I would like it back." When her face showed only careful confusion, he sighed, adding patiently, "The flower."

Isolde blinked, taking it from where she had hung it on her neck. As soon as she dangled it close to his outstretched hand, the man snatched at it, a greedy look flashing momentarily across his face before it settled back into the comfortable, sardonic smirk.

"Kashya, if you would…?" Akara offered hesitantly, hands clasped before her.

Kashya glowered, for a moment set on silence, before begrudgingly turning to Isolde, her face caught between angry and apologetic. The Rogue could guess what to whom.

"I was just explaining the situation in the Burial Grounds to the stranger," Kashya began, and Isolde felt ill. Telling him, an _outsider_, about Blood Raven? What had Kashya been _thinking_! As if sensing her thoughts, Kashya immediately continued, "Despite what Akara and the Sorceress might say, I do not believe in the trustworthiness of this man. But this is something that has plagued us for a long time, Isolde, and while eradicating the Den of Evil may have saved us from a _potential_ threat," and here she shot a look to Akara, expressing full well how she felt about the woman letting the Sorceress and Paladin handle that one, even if they had been successful, "the threat of… of Blood Raven is much more real and present." Her face softened. Isolde knew how close Kashya had been with the late Blood Raven before… she knew how hard it was for her to even say her name these days. "Our supplies are tight as it is, and Flavie has sent reports telling us that the waves of _her_ minions are getting stronger and more numerous every coming day. This is a win-win situation. If he succeeds, the Rogue Encampment has one less danger pressing in on us. If he dies in the process, then no one important has been sacrificed."

"Kashya!" Akara snapped, warningly, sounding enraged and scandalised. The raven man only barked a laugh, even clapping a little at the military commander's boldness.

"She's right. I am nothing to you, whatever Rosa might delude. As well as that, I am more than happy, as a sworn protector of natural order, to right the wrong of this Blood Raven's undead army."

Isolde looked him up and down evenly. What had Akara called him? Some strange, alien word she couldn't quite fit her tongue around. The intonation had made it seem more a title than a name.

"With due respect, Kashya… why are you telling me?"

Kashya glowered sourly at Akara, not looking at Isolde as she explained, "Akara insists that he be given a _guide_, though what she really means is _bodyguard_. For this task, she has volunteered you. We have come to an agreeable compromise: you will take him to the Burial Grounds and ensure that he arrives there _alive_. You will wait, safely beyond the limits of the grounds, for two hours at the most. If he does not return, alive, from the grounds by then, you _will_ return. If he does somehow make it out alive, _and_ has completed his task, you will guide him back to the camp. Understand?"

Isolde set her lips in a tight line, glaring accusingly at the raven man. He smiled affably up at her, shrugging tightly. The wince he gave from the movement was not reassuring.

"I understand, Kashya."

"Good." The woman turned, resting a hand on Isolde's shoulder. The soft squeeze communicated all of Kashya's worry. She leaned in close, smelling like ash and oil and home. Quietly, just for Isolde, she added, "Come back to me alive."


	3. Blood on the Plains

_I promised myself I wouldn't write these notes before chapters this time around, because it just breaks the flow of the story, but I feel obliged to apologise for the lateness of this chapter, especially after those kind reviews! I will try to keep chapter updates timely, and I will not bombard you with excuses. Again, thank you to everyone who took the time to review/comment on the story, especially to those who are coming to this from the original "Bloody Hellfire". I appreciate reading your impressions of my story, whether they're positive or negative._

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><p>The name of the Cold Plains was no exaggeration – a desolate flat plain land, where no wood nor rock nor hill could serve to break the merciless gales characteristic of Westmarch. The wind blew in as though it held a grudge against the land, needling venomously at any who dared stand against the horizon of its reach, drilling its needles of cold into the very bone. The wind was cursed, as black and foul as everything else in the poisoned land.<p>

But more than just the gales, there was also a mood to the Plains. It was an unsettling, supernatural cold, sewn into the very affections on the land. It was ghosts and old memories and grievances of the dead, with no survivors to carry their will. Long before they even drew to the crumbling stone arch that carved out the presence of the Burial Grounds, the party of two had stepped into a graveyard.

Isolde begrudgingly led the raven man over the blank, unchanging landscape of the Plains, though at times she felt ornamental. The man constantly stopped her, crouching to inspect one patch of ground that seemed no different to another, or to squint at an indiscernible bird flying overhead. She assumed it was a raven. Isolde remembered that the stranger was a Druid, and could probably have found his own way to the Burial Grounds by his own ability. It made her wonder what in the Hells she was supposed to be here for.

"Stop!" He hissed suddenly, arm pressed over her chest. In a moment, he had turned stock still, staring harshly up at the seething sky. Isolde swallowed, pushing his arm down pointedly, away from her breast. His cheeks flushed almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth struggling with a smirk.

"Do you have a reason behind that order, raven man?" Isolde demanded softly, eyes narrowed. He almost jumped, staring at her as if surprised to see she hadn't dematerialised into the ether within the few seconds of silence between them.

"No," was his initial response, then a hesitant, "yes, perhaps."

Impatience squirmed inside her, prompting Isolde to demand in a harsh bark, "_Which is it?_"

"Are there…" His eyes slanted, pressing a finger to his lip thoughtfully. "Are there demons here?"

Isolde pulled an arrow from the quiver on her back, pressing it to the groove of the bow, gloved fingers closing around the string. "Fallen."

"A problem?"

"Only if they mob you." She admitted, shifting so that her back was partially facing her companion.

He considered for a moment and then pressed, "Are they large?"

"No. Small. Cowardly. But travel in large groups – very large. It's better to take out their shaman – the figurehead – first."

Raven shook his head, pressing his fingers against the inner curve of her elbow lightly. "It's not Fallen, then. Something bigger – humanoid, armoured. Can you smell that, on the wind? Demonic corruption, decay, metal and blood. Approaching _fast_."

Isolde tightened her grip upon her bow, pulling her lips in to form a tight line with her mouth, lips invisible. She knew exactly what he was talking about now, and judging by his expression, he knew she knew. He gripped her arm firmly, pressuring her for the answer. From his description, it could only be one of her corrupted sisters, commanded by Blood Raven.

"Isolde," he said breathily, "I need you to _tell me_ what's coming."

"C-" She swallowed, trying again. "Corrupt Rogues."

Except she was too late to warn him, because the last of her words were already being drowned out by the howl of an otherworldly war call. The Druid managed to spin away from Isolde and draw his short sword faster than she expected – less than a week ago, he had been an infirm on the edge of death! – breaking immediately into a stride that put a steadily growing distance between the two of them. Her first instinct was to chase after him, a sick, irrational feeling of abandonment clamming up her throat, making it hard to breathe. But she knew why he was leaving her so far behind, as a ranged fighter. She spread her legs, turning side-on, and raised her bow.

Isolde hadn't seen a Corrupt Rogue since… since the Monastery had fallen. Kashya had kept her away from guard duty at the end of the moor because she knew… They had seemed taller in her nightmares; impossibly huge and looming, eyes on fire with cold blue-white light, teeth stained with blood, red clawing violent trails down their chins, their necks, blood wrapped around their swords like hands, pleading hands trying to stay the blades. In her nightmares, they had been monsters. Perhaps it was only the distance between them, but from here the Corrupt Rogues weren't so formidable. Not so tall, so bloody. They had diminished, rotten away, skin blackened and decayed by time and demonic magic. She could face these women, with their faces an unidentifiable mess, no longer familiar to her.

She drew, breathing slowly, just as she had been trained. Her first shot lunged at her first target, glancing off the metal armour. Isolde swore, readying another arrow. There was a flash of something between her and her target, however, a seething mass of muscle and blade and loose swordsmanship, unprofessional, dangerously untrained. The raven man fought with wild swings that left him perilously open, with no concept of grace or tactics, but his blade slid between joints in the armour unhindered, the push of all his force cutting through skin and flesh.

Isolde glowered, turning her arrow away from the mess of the stranger's battle, shooting down a Corrupt Rogue who had tried a change of tactics and had been headed in Isolde's direction. The arrow sunk into her throat, snapping her upper body back. The Corrupt Rogue let out an unholy screech, her body becoming a mess of blue fire, before collapsing. Isolde grabbed a handful of arrows, setting them point-first in the ground and focused. She wouldn't fell them so easily with one shot again.

The raven man was thrown back, a few metres from where Isolde stood, deflecting the swoop of a Rogue's sword. He lashed out with a foot, smashing into her knee and snapping it back, causing the cursed woman to fall. He took the moment to turn his head back, staring at Isolde upside-down. There was a manic brightness to his stare, a bloodlust that made her uncomfortable. He turned his shoulder, showing off the arrow embedded there. He seemed unperturbed by it. Had she done that?

"A group of archers – three or four? – take them out for me." He told her, attempting to bribe her with a charming, crooked grin. Isolde was unimpressed by the grin, but scanned the Rogues for the archers. Yes, there they were. Light armour, like her.

"Yes, yes. Just keep swinging your little knife." Isolde assured him dryly. His grin broke wide, and he rolled, slamming his blade down upon the neck of the Rogue he had crippled, before leaping up and lunging back into the fray. Isolde pulled an arrow from the ground, judging the distance between her and the archers to be roughly acceptable. She'd always worked better off instincts. The first arrow hit the closest archer in the leg, which immediately brought her temper to bear on Isolde. Isolde quickly grabbed a second arrow, correcting her aim, spearing the Rogue in the stomach this time. A third shot buried itself in the Corrupt Rogue's chest, managing to down her. The others had been brought to attention, and an arrow flew clear over Isolde's head. They weren't as good as her, but they were getting closer.

She let loose the last few arrows she'd set in the ground, crippling one of the archers, and darted sideways, breaking their aim. Sliding to a halt, she swung her bow, loosing an arrow in the arch. It flew left of the closest, grazing the archer behind her. An arrow nipped Isolde's thigh, though before a second one could fly, a feathery shadow swooped down, harassing the closest Corrupt Rogue. She tried to swat it away with a violent sweep of her hand, but the raven was evidently accustomed to its own brand of battle, able to dodge easily with graceful manoeuvres. It heckled the Corrupt Rogue until it tore her eyeballs from her sockets, flinging the pulpy mess aside. The demonic bitch screamed, dropping her bow and drawing a short sword, swinging it about blindly in a rage. Isolde didn't spend any time wondering at the event, instead taking the presented opportunity to shoot the Corrupt Rogue down – and down she went, screaming, in an all-consuming light.

Birds had converged en masse upon one of the two left, leaving her face a bloody mess of torn skin and abject fury. Isolde closed the gap between her and the two Corrupt Rogues, drawing her short sword. The remaining Rogue drew as well, but Isolde was quicker, cutting her arm deep. The hand spasmed, the blade dropping from it uselessly. Isolde jabbed, driving the blade up under the rib-cage, into the heart – which was a mistake, as she was thrown back in the burst of dying light, unprepared, the intensity of it searing abstract patterns into her eyes.

When her vision cleared, most of the melee fighters were nothing more than the remains of a bloody massacre at this point, victims of the one-man unstoppable force that had been the raven. He'd taken down the mutilated archer, and stood over Isolde. When she caught sight of him, for an absurd moment, an inexplicable feeling of immense terror clawed its hungry way through her. He stood, perfectly still, a bright, bloodthirsty light the only sign of life in the otherwise bloodied statue, the blade poised at a ready angle to the side, ruby dribbles of fresh blood collecting in murderous kisses along the edge. It felt like if she didn't stop him, he might mistake her for another Corrupt Rogue and bring the blade down on her throat – or perhaps kill her anyway, despite knowing the difference.

A scream stuck in her throat, lodged deep where she wouldn't be able to reach it. His arm moved, slightly, the blade swinging slowly, inexorably toward her. The thought to dive away occurred to her, but not before he moved first, arm striking with the abruptness and speed of a snake. She froze, shrinking away from the strike. Behind her, there was a gurgling scream, and a flash of light.

"I missed one. Sorry." He chuckled, leaving the blade in the skull of the body left behind, and offered her a hand up. Isolde managed to catch her breath, and then swatted the hand away, infuriated, and still more than a little perturbed.

"I'm not an invalid, raven man." She wheezed, clawing her way back to her feet.

"Of course not," he assured her, skirting her space and yanking his sword from the corpse, "you're more than capable."

The comment left her irritated, so she distracted herself by looting the bodies for arrows. The man hovered behind her, impatient to move on.

"The Burial Grounds are not far from here, raven ma– look, I can't keep calling you that. What's your name?"

"Rumpelstiltskin."

His grin gave him away.

"What did Akara call you? _Fitheach_?"

He tilted his head, the grind dropping quickly. "A false title. 'Raven'. You see, Druids have this terrible habit of naming themselves after common things in old languages."

"Then Raven it is!" She snapped. "The Burial Grounds are not far from here. We should move now, before this mess attracts any more unwanted attention. Oh, what are you smiling at?"

"You've given me a name. I feel like a beloved pet."

"Shut up and _move_."

He did, following at her heel. At least he obeyed orders.


End file.
